


The Dead Waltz

by nitpickyabouttrains



Category: Pushing Daisies
Genre: Gen, Pre-show, Sunburn, dance puns, mini episode, narrator voice, please and thank you, seriously read everything that is not dialogue in the narrator voice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 00:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4725410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The facts were these: one Wentworth Merriweather, an unmarried dance instructor aged 23 years, 10 weeks, 6 days, 6 hours, and 28 minutes old, was found burned to death in an empty dance studio at his place of employment, Waltz This Way. </p>
<p>Ned works the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dead Waltz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hi_irashay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hi_irashay/gifts).



> A very happy SUNBURN to hi_irshay! I may have written you things for fandoms you didn't reconize, but I like to think it all worked out in the end!

At this very moment Ned was 26 years, 14 weeks, 6 days, 23 hours, and 3 minutes old. No longer as young as he once was, and as of yet still not as grown as he is now. He stood in front of a corner store, noting the police tape. 

“Well,” he said, his brow crinkling. “This isn’t good.”

Despite the heat, he could not move on, and could not look away. The sun shone brightly in the sky above him, bright rays beating down on his unprotected head. Ned could feel his cheeks turning red, the back of his neck growing hot. He had never been much good in the sun, or really anything outdoors at all.

Ned belonged inside, always had. Where the roof and walls kept the sun off his back and the temperature around his head more tolerable. He belonged in a kitchen. If only he could afford one.

It was an economical part of town, growing and full of young people. Ned had taken to wandering the streets, looking at the slowly increasing number of store fronts, and dreaming about opening his own establishment in the area. Some place to bake. Some place to call his own. Unfortunately for him, even in this affordable part of town, everything was out of his budget.

With what he could afford, he would be lucky to be working out of an empty warehouse without air conditioning. Which, in this weather, would be as good as a death sentence.

This store, however, had always been one of his favorites. On a corner, a round building, with a friendly overhang and large windows. Waltz This Way, the popular dance studio run by brothers Allegro and Tendu Stepp, was at this moment dark and closed off.

The facts were these: Allegro Stepp was 11 months, 29 days, and 3 minutes older than his brother. Tendu Stepp, however, was 5.7 inches taller. These small differences were the only aspects the brothers did not share. They had the same brown eyes, the same lilting voices, and the same dancers build. And the same stake in their dance studio. 

“No, it isn’t good,” a tired voice agreed with him, sighing.

Ned turned to his right and was surprised to find one of the owners, Allegro Stepp, standing next to him. Allegro’s arms were crossed as he stood facing the empty building.

“What happened?” Ned asked. The lights were off and there was no one inside, not as far as Ned could tell. There was nothing physically wrong with the building. It looked like it always did, just without people.

“No one knows,” said almost the exact same voice, but this time from his left. “That’s the problem. The police can’t figure it out.”

“And until they do,” Allegro said from his other side, “we are out of business. We have to stay closed.”

“Not that it matters,” Tendu picked up the comment, complaint clear in his voice. When Ned turned to him, Tendu had a hard look on his face. “Once word gets out that there was a murder in the building, no one is going to come back for classes.”

Ned’s head shot from the brothers to the building in surprise, looking for hints or evidence of what Tendu had just said. “There was a murder?”

Both Stepp brothers leaned forward, in front of Ned, and looked at each other. Then at Ned. Then at each other again. Their heads turned in unison, as if connected to the same swivel. They both shared the same deep brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, and the same perplexed expression. Their hair even flopped into their faces at the same time. It was the perfect dance, completely in unison, practiced and perfected over a lifetime.

“Who are you?” Allegro asked, but it was Tendu who raised his eyebrow with the question.  

“Oh- I, ugh-,” Ned said, flustered. “Ned. I’m Ned. I was just standing here, looking at your beautiful building, thinking about how sad it was that it was empty. I didn’t mean to…”

“It is sad,” Allegro agreed, standing up straight again, and looking back at the building with a nod. His voice sounded wistful, sad.

“It is empty,” Tendu agreed, the same exact tone in his voice, a mirror of his brother.

Allegro jumped back in. “And it’s going to stay that way. Even if we can find out what happened, and get back up and running. Our reputation is tarnished. This location is, too. We would have to go somewhere else.”

“We own the building,” Tendu said. “I can’t imagine anyone would want to rent it now. And it wouldn’t fetch a good price, no crime scene does.”

“Who died?” Ned asked, an idea occurring to him. It wasn’t a good idea. In fact, Ned would have gone as far as to say it was a bad idea. But aside from being a bad idea, it was an opportunity, and he so rarely got those. “What happened?”

“One of our dance instructors,” Tendu said, shaking his head.

“Circumstances unknown,” Allegro shook his head too. “Or at least, that’s what the police say. He was dancing, after the students were gone, and he burst into flames.”

Tendu’s eyes were locked on the store. “By the time we rushed in there was nothing left of him. Just a smoldering body.”

It sounded impossible to Ned, and he said as much. “Spontaneous combustion. That sounds impossible.”

“The police agree with you,” Allegro said gravely. “They say someone had to be there, that there had to be a cause. That’s why it’s considered an unsolved murder. They are still investigating what happened, which is why we can’t start to move on.”

“They think it was us,” Tendu added. “Put a hold on our finances until they can find the killer. We would do anything to find the real culprit.”

The facts were these: one Wentworth Merriweather, an unmarried dance instructor aged 23 years, 10 weeks, 6 days, 6 hours, and 28 minutes old, was found burned to death in an empty dance studio at his place of employment, Waltz This Way. 

There were no witnesses, and the police’s top suspects were Wentworth Merriweather’s two bosses, the brothers Stepp. The Stepp brothers, however, were looking for another explanation. 

“If I found out who did it, helped you clear your name...” Ned started to suggest. 

“You give us a name, and you can have anything you want,” Tendu said, cutting him off. “Free waltz lessons for life.”

Allegro waved his hand at the building, “You said you thought the building was beautiful. Solve the case and you can have it, dirt cheap. Save us the trouble of trying to find another buyer.”

“Deal,” Ned said quickly, before either brother could change their mind. He reached out his hand, offering it to the brothers. They shook it and all three introduced themselves more formally. Ned took another look at the building, at what could be his, for some motivation. 

His next stop was the morgue. 

+++

The sheet-covered body slid out and the mortician held out a hand. Ned placed a whole triple berry pie in the woman’s hand. She leaned over, taking a long whiff, and nodded her head. 

“You have five minutes,” she said, before turning around to go back to her office, her eyes focused on the pie in front of her. 

Ned, however, did not have five minutes, no matter what she said. He had one minute. Those were the rules. That was how his touch worked. He could only bring someone back to life for one minute, any longer and someone else would die. First touch, life. Second touch, dead again, forever. 

It was not a perfect system, but if it worked it could be the way to his own store. So Ned slowly pulled back the sheet that was covering Wentworth Merriweather, careful not to touch him, not yet. 

He flexed his finger back and forth, as he took in the body. Wentworth Merriweather had seen better days. His skin looked raw, red, and singed black all over, with welts. All burnt - even his hair looked crispy. Pieces of him stuck to the sheet that Ned had pulled back. 

On his body hung the remains of his clothing. Through the burned material, Ned could make out tight black pants that clung to his skin. And on his top was what appeared to be a tank top, shining pieces of red glitter scattered among the tatters. 

Ned cringed at the sight, but he was there for a reason. So, taking a deep breath, he started the watch on his wrist with the press of a button. Then he reached out and placed his first finger on Wentworth Merriweather’s arm. 

Wentworth Merriweather’s eyes flew open and he sat up, coughing. Smoke came out of his lungs. “Hello?” he said. 

“Uh, hey,” Ned greeted, unsure of the protocols when asking the dead how they died. 

“Is it just me, or is it a little chilly in here?” Wentworth Merriweather asked.

“It’s not just you,” Ned started to say, because the room was cold, but he caught himself. “Well, actually, it is sort of you. You have a bit of a skin situation going on. In that you don’t really have any anymore.” 

Wentworth Merriweather looked down at his arms, almost surprised. “Oh, would you look at that. I guess I don’t.”

Ned glanced at his watch nervously and started talking faster. “That’s actually what I came here to ask about. Do you happen to remember who set you on fire? Or at least where the fire came from?”

“I was dancing as fast as I could,”  Wentworth Merriweather shook his head, not an entirely good idea, given the state of his skin. 

Ned’s head tilted to the side. “So, you danced so fast you caught fire?”

“It’s possible,” Wentworth Merriweather said, not sounding nearly as doubtful as Ned felt. “Or it could have been the spark.”

“A spark?” Ned asked. “From where?”

“I don’t know,” Wentworth Merriweather said, attempting to furrow his brow - which was actually impossible because he had no brow left to speak of. “It looked like it came from the air vent, on the wall. It caught on my dance pants and that was it, everything was on fire, my whole outfit.” 

Ned looked down at his clock again, less than ten seconds left. “Do you have any idea who would want you dead?”

“That damn Stepp,” Wentworth Merriweather said without hesitation. 

Ned wanted to ask which brother, but there was no time left. Ned reached out his finger again, touching Wentworth Merriweather a second time, and he flopped back onto the table. Dead again. 

Ned stared at the body again, this time with slightly more fear. One of the Stepp brothers he had been talking to that very day was a murderer. He had shaken both of their hands ,  -  they had seemed well-intentioned enough , y et one of them was the reason this man was fried. 

Without the help of another murdered body to ask, Ned had no way of finding out which brother it was. His only advantage was gone. 

Yet he was determined to solve the case, to bring one of the brothers Stepp to justice. For the good of Wentworth Merriweather, if not for the pie shop he hoped to open one day. 

+++

Without another option or idea, Ned stood stooped over, near the side entrance of Waltz This Way. It was dark out, night had fallen, but the air was still warm and thick and humid. It made the black turtleneck sweater he was wearing highly uncomfortable, but it was the best he could come up with on short notice. 

Ned had never broken into a building before. 

He had, however, snuck around. Looked through windows and entered rooms he was banned from. Breaking and entering was different, he was growing to realize. 

Taking a final look around to make sure he was alone and no one would be able to see him, Ned tried the door. It was locked tight. He tried the window next to the door and was pleasantly surprised to find that the pane jiggled in place without too much effort. 

Ned made a mental note to get the window fixed when he owned the place and pried the window open. It slid up with a sickening creaking noise and Ned froze, hands on the window frame, to see if anyone had heard. 

But there was nothing but quiet and cicadas in the night’s air. So Ned braced himself against the wall, both arms now in the open window, and hoisted himself up. 

“Unf,” Ned groaned, as the upper half of his body came through the window, leaving his legs dangling on the outside. “Here we go,” he whispered to himself, as he used the wall outside to push himself the rest of the way in. 

He fell through the window, head first, landing on the floor with as little grace as possible. Ned lifted his head and saw that on the walls all around him were pictures of dancers, lithe and poised. It felt like their eyes were on him, mocking his fall onto the ground. 

“Time to end this,” Ned mumbled under his breath as he plotted tearing down the pictures once he was in charge of the space. He pressed himself up onto his feet and brushed the dust off himself, and looked around the room. 

In the corner were a pile of boxes, stacked four tall. Each box had a large red diamond on it, with a picture of a flame and the word FLAMMABLE is large bold letters. 

Ned flipped open the top box, which already had a loose flap, and peered inside. The box was full of stretchy black pants and glittery sparkling bright red shirts. Dance costumes. It looked very much like the tattered remains Wentworth Merriweather was wearing in the morgue. 

Ned started to walk through Waltz This Way, and the second door he opened led straight to the room he was looking for. The room Wentworth Merriweather died in. He could tell he was in the right place by all the police tape around the large burn mark on the floor. Finding the vent Wentworth Merriweather had mentioned was easy, too. It was on the wall, near the ground, less than a foot from where Wentworth Merriweather had fallen. 

Through the grate came a low voice, familiar to Ned from earlier that day. The Stepp brothers’ voices were similar , though, and Ned could not tell which brother the voice belonged to. Ned sidled up closer, so he could hear what was being said. 

“I’ll have your money soon,” a Stepp snapped. 

There was a pause, and Ned realized he was listening to one half of a conversation only. A phone call. 

“It worked out better than I could have hoped, the insurance money is already on the way,” the brother said. “It won’t come to foreclosure. I have a chump on the line, ready to buy out the rest of the debt and this place.”

Ned frowned. Foreclosure? Insurance money? Was it possible that Waltz This Way was not as financially viable as the Stepp brothers had made it seem? Was he the chump on the line, having expressed interest in buying the building once the matter was all settled? 

“No, it didn’t come to that, the building is still intact,” the voice assured whoever was on the other side of the line. 

It was all Ned needed to hear.  Wentworth Merriweather was right, one of the Stepp brothers was responsible for his death. Ned was no closer to finding out which one, but he was not about to hang around the dark building where a murder had already been committed to find out. 

So Ned skulked back out the way he had come. Down the hall, toward the window. He got back to the room full of judging dancer photos and paused to gather himself. A door slammed down the hall and Ned ran behind the FLAMMABLE boxes, to hide. 

Only seconds later, feet appeared in the doorway. Ned glanced around the boxes, his eyes traveling up. And up. And up. Because it was Tendu Stepp standing there, looking around curiously. The taller and younger of the two brothers. He glared around the room, before shrugging and walking back out the way he had come. 

Ned let out a deep breath and scrambled back out, the way he had come in, before the danger returned. 

The facts were these: When Wentworth Merriweather found himself in the exact same situation as Ned, overhearing the exact same conversation, he acted differently. Instead of running away from the voice, he ran toward it.  Wentworth Merriweather confronted Tendu Stepp, attempting to blackmail him into a share of the profits. 

What Wentworth Merriweather did not know was that besides insurance on the building, the brothers Stepp also had insurance on each of their teachers. Dance was a dangerous sport. Injuries needed to be covered. 

So did death. 

Tendu Stepp saw the opportunity to save the building and lower the damage, and still collect his insurance money. And it did not involve sharing with Wentworth Merriweather. 

Ned knew he could not go back to the Stepp brothers with this information. He had no idea if Allegro was in on the plot with his brother, or who was on the other side of the phone. So instead, he called in a tip to the police. 

The perpetrator caught, and the building foreclosed on, Ned learned a valuable lesson: that deals made with murderers were void. And that buying a foreclosure from the bank was an extremely reasonable way to attain a store. 


End file.
